Devil, Stay Away
by DevilCuriosity
Summary: It's been 5 years since he left. How, then, does Mitchell find himself sitting across from Josie one afternoon? Whatever conversation they're having is nowhere near cordial. She's over him, but he still loathes himself. Moderately inspired by Masterpiece's The Song of Lunch.


'_Cause she don't care at all anymore  
and I don't know why I still do,  
and why I'm telling you,  
_'_cause you are the devil,  
and you can stay away from me.  
Stay away from me.  
Stay away._

Punch Brothers

* * *

Her eyes were still as soft as the sunset he had seen days ago in Belize. Her hair was different, but that was only for the sake of the decade she was living in. _Those eyes, _he thought sullenly to himself. He remembered them so vividly. So intrinsically. Everything about her now was still as he remembered. In all his years, he learned what he thought was a rather useful takeaway when it came to the human race. It didn't matter how a person changed themselves, whether they adjusted their outward appearance or attempted to adapt to a particular state of mind. They would always, sometimes unknowingly, retain a part of their core, their truest character. Looking in from the outside, this was something he saw very easily in everyone he met. Maybe this is why he found it so difficult to simply kill a person. There was always a story behind their faces. _A goddamned story, _he thought annoyingly to himself. He chuckled grimly. And then he looked up to see her face again, her naturally painted brows raised in question.

How many years had it been? He had lost track of time. He stopped counting from the moment he walked away from her, the day that burned into his memory like a cold fire. He could have told her everything she asked about, she would have never held anything against him. He knew this to be true but he just didn't do it. He didn't open himself up, he closed her out, he threw what happiness he had out the window. _Such a fuckup, _he thought bitterly. And for what? So that he could be miserable for the rest of his violent life? So that he could wander forever beyond the lives of the people who did nothing but love him for what he was?

"This is what you do," her melodiously soft voice had said. He looked up at her. She was expressionless. Her beautiful face was unreadable. It was uncharacteristic of her, and an uneasiness crept on him like a hungry panther in the darkness.

_This is what he does, _she thought to herself. This thought appeared and then disappeared repeatedly like a marquee in her head. This will always be what he does, until someone kills him and ends his impenetrable sense of self-deprecation. He lives in a world where only he exists, where only his fears are singular and irrelevant to everyone else, where no one can tolerate his instinctual nature. This, and whatever other reason he has chosen to console himself with. He fabricates his own unhappiness out of nothingness. This cloud of judgment swirls around in her head, ceasing to disappear with any form of clarity.

She looks at him. The long fingers on his perfectly sculpted hand are running circles around the edge of the porcelain cup. His beautiful eyes stare at it as an unknowing smirk adorns his rouged lips. He's in thought, lost in his thoughts as he always was. And his face... that infallibly beautiful face hadn't aged a day. This had always amazed her above all else. To her, he was everything but what he convinced himself to be. He was one of the most beautiful creatures she had ever set eyes on, the most intensely passionate and vulnerable of spirits. She usually fought her contradicting emotions when she was more grateful than afraid to have him in her life. He was always a blessing to her, even a godsend. He made her days bright again - everything the truest love could bring forth in a person. Of course, her way of thinking was vastly different from his. He felt differently. He never told her this but deep down, she figured as much. People can have their secrets, she pondered, but to hide your secrets until they hurt you so bitterly and tear you away from someone you love? That's a bigger problem altogether.

"You look good," he said, the Irish lilt in his voice so smooth and velvety. She looked up abruptly, the sound of speech pulling her out of thought. For a millisecond, the corners of her lips curled up into a smile but she stopped herself from doing so. It was too easy for her to love him, too simple for her to pity his state of being in this moment. As she regained control of herself, she looked into his eyes and crafted a gradually deadening expression.

"I've been well," she said evenly as she raised her cup and took a sip of tea. "Are you still living in the same place?"

"With Annie and George, yes," he said. His eyes rested on her the entire time, a genuine smile spread across his lips. Then he laughed softly and looked back down at his cup. "They've been good to me," he finished solemnly.

"Why did you leave, Mitch?" Her voice cut the momentary silence like a knife through tender meat. She saw the flash of shame sweep across his eyes before he regained his composure and looked hard at her. He couldn't find his words.

"I had to leave," he said as he nodded in disapproval at himself. "I had to go."

"Where did you have to be?" She asked. Her overly calm demeanor was beginning to gnaw at him before he caught wind of it. So he resorted to looking at her, straight in the eyes, unblinking for all the world to see.

"What do you want me to say?" He asked after a bit of silence. She shrugged indignantly, and this stirred a bit of anger in him. "Did you think it was easy?" He said, his cordial tone breaking just a bit. His eyes were now fixed on her and he refused to look anywhere else. She laughed bitterly, the sound too shrill for the softness of her personality. It took him by surprise as he watched her nod discouragingly to herself.

"Easy?" She asked, her tone still even. "When were things ever easy, Mitch?" She took a deep breath before she finally allowed herself to voice everything she had bottled up the last few years. "Five years, Mitch," she said quietly, more to herself than to him. Moments passed, lifetimes even as he sat there in silent torture. "I loved you," she concluded, her words laden with so much finality, like she was tossing them off a cliff to be lost forever. She looked up and her eyes welled with tears. Tears on her beautiful face, unfallen but brimming and reddening her eyes. It was as if someone had staked him right through his heart and he lived to feel every ounce of pain.

It was all too much. _I have to go, _he thought. _I need to leave before I beg her forgiveness. _His thoughts were one thing and his legs were another. Just as he thought this, he could've dashed out before anyone noticed he was gone, most especially her. But he didn't move. Not a muscle. Instead, he sat there and looked at her and he was sure she felt the pain jolt through him, quick and potent. She knew he felt it.

"I'm," he began feebly. He shook his head, took a deep breath and looked back up at her. "I'm sorry, Josie." His vision was blurring as tears formed in his green eyes. "I'm so sorry," he said, "I never meant to - to hurt you." He almost sputtered the last words, unable to contain the decades of torment that had clenched his heart to such an unbearable degree. He breathed in a big puff of air and felt the monster in his chest ease up a little, the clawed fingers releasing that internal organ that sustained his life. Everything he saw in his mind's eye had suddenly cleared. As if a canvas had been wiped clean. The reds and oranges and blacks were no more, only the lined mauve fabric remained.

And then he looked at her once again and saw it in her eyes. A cold, unforgiving gaze. He knew in that moment that her next words would be her last. There would be no more after this, it was finished now. She took hold of her sequined purse on the table, pulled out a few paper bills and placed them gingerly over one of the tea saucers. She then stood up, smoothed out her silken skirt, and draped her coat over her shoulders. And then she turned to him.

"Goodbye, Mitch," she said quietly, her face as still as a crystal lake. Without a moment more, she turned toward the door and walked out. He stared at her moving form until the last remnant of her flowing skirt vanished behind the glass doors.

_A life for a life, _he thought absently to himself. He felt oddly numb and yet, as the numbness spread to each nerve in his body, a strange tranquility followed thereafter. As if he had been beaten to a pulp and then woke to find his wounds healed. Never forgotten, but fully healed. The closure to a chapter in his life that he would sooner remember than forget.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I was watching Masterpiece's "The Song of Lunch" a while ago and pictured a similar (but more violent and less funny) version of that between Mitchell and Josie. I love these two but they didn't last because let's be real, this is Mitchell we're talking about. Self-deprecating, gorgeous, ridiculous Mitchell. We love him but his sense of self love is nonexistent and he just becomes so... frustrating! Can you blame Josie? I wouldn't. Anyway - I spewed out what was in my head through this one-shot. To continue this would be disastrous as I don't have any more literary ammo, so to speak. But I hope you enjoy the read and I'm sorry for the depressing afterthought at the end.

Your reviews are most welcome.


End file.
